The doubt in Lady Charlotte’s eyes was transient.
She dropped her glass. Visible adieux were being
waved between Mr. Pericles and Laura Tinley on the
one hand, and Wilfrid and Emilia, on the other.
After which, and at a quick pace, manifestly shivering,
Mr. Pericles drew Laura into the shadows, and Emilia,
clad in the immense bearskin, as with a trailing black
barbaric robe, walked toward the oaks. Wilfrid’s
head was stooped to a level with Emilia’s, into
whose face he was looking obliviously, while the hot
words sprang from his lips. They neared the oak,
and Emilia slanted her direction, so as to avoid the
neighbourhood of the tree. Tracy felt a sudden
grasp of his arm. It was momentary, coming simultaneously
with a burst of Wilfrid’s voice.

“Do I know what I love, you ask? I love
your footprints! Everything you have touched
is like fire to me. Emilia! Emilia!”

“Then,” came the clear reply, “you
do not love Lady Charlotte?”

“Love her!” he shouted scornfully, and
subdued his voice to add: “she has a good
heart, and whatever scandal is talked of her and Lord
Eltham, she is a well-meaning friend. But, love
her! You, you I love!”

“Theatrical business,” Lady Charlotte
murmured, and imagined she had expected it when she
promised Emilia she would step out into the night
air, as possibly she had.

The lady walked straight up to them.

“Well, little one!” she addressed Emilia;
“I am glad you have recovered your voice.
You play the game of tit-for-tat remarkably well.
We will now sheath our battledores. There is
my hand.”

The unconquerable aplomb in Lady Charlotte, which
Wilfrid always artistically admired, and which always
mastered him; the sight of her pale face and courageous
eyes; and her choice of the moment to come forward
and declare her presence;—­all fell upon
the furnace of Wilfrid’s heart like a quenching
flood. In a stupefaction, he confessed to himself
that he could say actually nothing. He could hardly
look up.

Emilia turned her eyes from the outstretched hand,
to the lady’s face.

“What will it mean?” she said.

“That we are quits, I presume; and that we bear
no malice. At any rate, that I relinquish the
field. I like a hand that can deal a good stroke.
I conceived you to be a mere little romantic person,
and correct my mistake. You win the prize, you
see.”

“You would have made him an Austrian, and he
is now safe from that. I win nothing more,”
said Emilia.

When Tracy and Emilia stood alone, he cried out in
a rapture of praise, “Now I know what a power
you have. You may bid me live or die.”